a love letter: the intimacy of sharing

hometowns and friends abroad

You may spend a glorious amount of time in the most entrapping city, but no matter the shine and melody, there will never be a place that speaks to you quite like your hometown.

At least, that is how I feel about mine. For as soon as I step outside into our garden, the ravines of grapes that shield us from heat strokes curl themselves around me like the strong embrace of someone I love.

There is a certain unspoken understanding between a person and their hometown. As if you signed away your loyalty before you learned how to read or write. Perhaps there is an invisible thread pulling you back when you stray too far, or for too long.

Which is why your hometown feels intimate, and to share it, even more so. To pick up a friend from the airport, one that has never been to your city, or even your country. Almost like you’d whisper it to them after a night out, hoping they’re not quite awake by the time your lips spell it out.

“Marseille.”

A silent spell.

Going through the small streets with them feels like they’re tracing the veins of your arm. You shudder.

You keep looking at them, trying to decipher a hint, an expression: anything that might hint towards an approval.

It shouldn’t really matter. The approval. Your friends would never outright disapprove of your hometown. But still, you await their smile to mirror it with your own.

You go over in your head all the places you want to show them, but still ask them what they’d like to do. You understand that from where they’re standing, it seems illogical for them to take charge. You’re the tour guide. But you’ve never felt more like the child.

These streets mark your first steps. The birds echo your first screams. The shop keeper knows your favourite ice cream. The neighbour greets you and inquires on your parents. They ask you if you’re still studying.

Your friend knows the answer. But your friend doesn’t know that the neighbour let you borrow their phone when you lost your house keys and wanted to call mom because she wasn’t answering the door. They don’t know that the playlist you play when you have guests over for dinners in the garden is a playlist you stole from a restaurant in St Tropez.

“Marseille.”

A nightly whisper.

“Marseille.”

A shared embrace.

PS. What’s the whisper of your hometown?

Love,

Anastasia